


Saw You The Other Day

by CookieCatSU



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: And tries to reverse death, Beakley: Sir you can't-, But it's just Duckworth so..., But like propriety and all, Dubious Timeline, His intentions are good, It's a secret kind of but not, Louie Duck is a devious problem child, M/M, Next Up: Scrooge joins a cult!, Scrooge and Duckworth are two very smitten old men, Scrooge: Yes I can or my name isn't Scrooge McDuck!, That's basically their entire relationship, There's no true timeline here, They've got one brain cell between them and Beakley is hogging it, You've been warned, nothing new there, warning: character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Louie meddles, sticks his nose where it does not belong, and makes a mess.Or; a conglomeration of interconnected pieces revolving around Scrooge and Duckworth's relationship that no one asked for, but I'm throwing out there anyway.
Relationships: Duckworth/Scrooge McDuck
Kudos: 16





	1. Saw You The Other Day

" **Your** ghost, huh?"

"That is what I said, yes, lad"

"Don't you think that's a little weird?"

"Not particularly. Duckworth _is_ **mine** "

Scrooge was an old, greedy miser. _Possessive_ was in his nature, really, so Louie can't say he's very surprised at the statement. The sentiment. Except he totally is, because this wasn't gold, or some artifact. No, this was some equally old, way too refined, British canine named Duckworth, who Scrooge was staking a claim on, (who always gazed at his Uncle Scrooge with this look of unending adoration, which was so gross, by the way).

That meant something. This means something.

Louie stares at his uncle, his eyebrows pinched together. Nothing was making sense right now.

He's also still feeling rather shaken by that ax wielding specter they'd run into, the one that could very easily still be watching them, this very moment. Possibly waiting to kill them; someone was always trying to kill them.

"What about Black Arts' ghost?…."

"Not **his** ghost" Uncle Scrooge looks mildly offended, for a moment. Then a smug look of pure satisfaction crosses his face, and he says, in what is nearly a _purr_ , it's so ridiculously _pleased_ , " **My** ghost"

As if called forth by that statement, the murderous spectre immediately appears in the empty space between them, stitching itself together out of thin air.

"Boys, meet Duckworth, my most **loyal** servant~ Duckworth, the boys"

And then things start to make sense.

The longing looks, the mischevious, matching smiles, the way they revel in the shared chaos.

It all clicks in place.

Of course.

Louie chuckles, "Wow. You're more clueless than I thought"

"Now listen here, you little helion-"

Louie does not stick around for _that_ tantrum. He knows all he needs to, anyway.

* * *

Huey considers the question posed, flipping through his guidebook, "Other than Goldie- no"

Louie flips over, upper body hanging off his bunk, gaze glued to the ceiling (there's gum wrappers stuck up there too, wet and sticky and probably weird smelling, but Louie ignores them, because he has no desire to have to remove them. They look fine. And if he waits long enough, someone else will take care of it). Besides, there are bigger, more important concerns at hand: like juicy gossip, and dirt, and proving to his idiot brothers just how clueless they are.

Case in point, "Didn't you see the way Uncle Scrooge was looking at Duckworth?"

Dewey shrugs. "Not really. I was too busy being relieved about not dying"

"Why do you care so much, anyway?" Huey asks, eyebrow raised, because _everyone_ already knew Louie only got invested in something to this extent if there was a benefit for him. Otherwise, he couldn't be bothered to care at all, content instead to sit on the sidelines and watch the usual mess unfold.

So what was different here?

"I don't. I mean, I don't know. Blackmail. Inheritance, maybe?"

Yeah, that sounded about right. Those were both plausible. If Scrooge hooked up with Duckworth, he could totally sneak some incriminating evidence and finagle whatever he wanted. And if Scrooge were with someone he may be in a better mood, less moody and angry, and Louie could weasel his way into a larger chunk of the will while he's still unsuspecting. Maybe. Either way, Louie saw this as definitely workable.

"I don't even want to know" Huey says quickly, before Louie can explain.

Dewey laughs, staring up at the ceiling, "Oooh, Louie shut down by the Red Ranger!" He presses his finger to the headboard as if touching a hot stove, cheeky smile and all, "Psst. Woah. How you gonna treat them burns?"

Louie pointedly ignores him.

"Well, are you going to help me out or not?" His tone makes it pretty clear what he thinks the answer should be.

"Fine. But you owe me" Huey says with a huff.

Dewey nods from his perch on the bunk, "I'm in too, but only if I get to wear my spy costume"

"Weird, but okay"

* * *

When Duckworth held him, he just went all to pieces.

Scrooge McDuck, strong, temperamental, mercurial adventurer, self made grisled billionaire, became like putty in his hands, limp and aching, soft in a way that seemed to defy everything he usually was. All the canine had to do was touch him, a simple hand placed on his elbow, his shoulder, and he'd immediately cave, wide eyed and leaning in, whatever grousing words he had on his tongue dissipating like smoke.

Even a full blown, rage filled rant could be stopped, averted, simply with a set of fingers, laced through his cheek whiskers (it was difficult to shout when one is so busy, purring like a kitten). Scrooge talked a tough game, but he's a sucker for physical contact of any kind (only if it's him, of course).

Duckworth knows this, and may or may not use it to his advantage. He was not above foul play, mainly because he knows his employer is much the same way.

Scrooge knows just what spot to scratch behind Duckworth's ears to make him swoon, for example, and is merciless in the use of such knowledge.

Duckworth's sitting in the garden, complaining a bit about the little duckling cavorting all across his prized flower beds, and then Scrooge is beside him, telling him to relax, and scratching that damned spot behind his ear that has his back arching and his eyes closing in pure bliss and his hands shaking, and he has to bite back that pleased little groan that just barely escapes past his teeth (and was so very unbecoming of a gentleman). His tail is wagging and his hands are clenching, and Scrooge is grinning so smugly down at him, and Duckworth can't even bring himself to be properly angry.

"You cheating sneak" He barely manages to say.

"Whatever do you mean, Benedict, dear?" Scrooge replies, voice bright with faked innocence.

But he's still scratching that _spot_ , and Duckworth can't muster the presence of mind to form a proper retort.

He knows _exactly_ what he means, of course.

So, Duckworth sees it as entirely justified when he grabs his hand beneath the dinner table, interlacing their fingers, and the old duck's eyes get so wide they're like saucers. If someone asks about it, and Scrooge has to stutter out an explanation, that's even better.

He also sees it as simply returning the favor, when company comes over, and he walks up behind Scrooge with an innocent smile and offhand air, and casually places both hands on his shoulders, effectively cutting off whatever train of thought the duck had been following, before beginning to speak himself, as if nothing had happened. It never occurred to anyone, that something may be afoot, that the stoic, slender man behind him might be the reason McDuck suddenly stopped speaking.

And if he took his thumbs and massaged his shoulders, kneading and pressing into the flesh, he could probably shut him up for the rest of the evening.

Scrooge keeps his beak firmly shut, hands twitching at his sides, as Duckworth turns to an particularly irate investor with a smile and a few polite words.

"That's dirty. Completely unfair" Scrooge says, later that same evening.

Duckworth just smiles deviously, "There are rules?"

"Of course there are" Scrooge exclaims, eyes smoldering, "Don't interrupt ma while 'm talking business, for starters"

It's not just for revenge of course, because Duckworth genuinely enjoys the looks of surprise he receives for his efforts. There's something about being able to push Scrooge ever so slightly off tempo that's deeply satisfying, perhaps because he's the only one who can.

Duckworth gently removes his top hat, tucking it beneath his arm all in one fluid motion. Scrooge stares up at him, with this look, one part surprised, two parts anticipating, and three so adoring it's bound to give the canine a cavity. He presses their foreheads together and tangles his fingers through the duck's cheek whiskers, and Scrooge presses as close as he can with a drawn out sigh: he radiates heat, heat, heat.

He pulls Duckworth in like a fly to flame, a moth to light, and he is powerless to stop him.

Not that he particularly wants to.

* * *

Those children were troublemakers. It took him a few days to figure out where they came from- for, one moment, the mansion is empty, silent, with Webbigail and Beakley hidden in one corner, and Scrooge ensconsed in the other, and then the next there's three new sets of pattering duckling feet, and Master McDuck is leaving the mansion for the first time in a decade.

They're Della's.

Which is a blow, in and of itself. Each one of them is their own reminder of their late mother, each her spitting image, a fractured angle in a shattered looking glass.

Duckworth finds himself spending more time hovering near her portrait, in the days following their arrival, staring at the brushstrokes that pantomime her features but could never convey her spirit, grief set anew.

He also finds himself watching her boys, whenever he gets the chance (they're just as much Donald's as they are hers, in manner and sensibilities). Trying to come to know them, the way he knew Della, though he can't talk to them, or interact with them, or be seen.

He does the next best thing. He observes, from the confines of the mansion's walls.

Observes, whenever he can. The last link he still has.

His tether, if you will.

* * *

When Scrooge initiates contact it's generally in the confines of a personal space, hidden behind closed doors (unless he's about to get lost in a crowd, and needs an anchor, or he's in desperate need of comfort, or he's feeling particularly bold: or their far enough from prying eyes for it to feel safe, to do so). He'll curl up beside him, and take his hand in his to trace the lines of it, the sharp angles and sloping curves, of knuckles and paw pads and soft fur, free of gloves. Sometimes, he'll pet his tummy as well, which Benedict hates nearly as much as being scratched behind the ears (which is to say he doesn't, exactly, but it is a matter of pride all the same).

Benedict glares him down, from where he sits in the armchair beside him, staring at the offending appendage sitting atop his stomach.

"Would you be so kind as to desist, sir?" He says, unable to stop a slipping laugh, "Please don't make the mistake of thinking I won't take matters into my own hands"

"Aw, c'mon! You know you like it, Benny" Scrooge retorts.

"Notwithstanding, it's time to put the little one's to bed"

* * *

There were some things one did not do, unless one had a death wish: one of those things absolutely included sneaking up on Webbigail B. Vanderquack.

Dewey, of course, had never had much sense.

"Tell us what you know!" Dewey shouts from where he sits crouched behind her bed, springing up with arms raised.

Webby startles, drops the book cradled in her arms, and turns on him immediately with grappling hook pointed at his beak.

"Who goes there! I'm armed-" She smiles sheepishly, upon catching sight of all three triplets, Dewey cowering in the front and his brothers flanking him on either side, "Oh, it's just you guys!"

She tosses the grappling hook aside.

"Yeah, now please don't shoot me in the face" Dewey gasps, still covering his beautiful, beautiful face.

"Nah, you should totally do it" Louie jokes, to hide how shaken he is, "We need that comp"

Webby giggles, "I'd never shoot you guys. You're my friends" She collects her book, that sparkly journal Dewey only ever got a glimpse in, and places it on the desk beside the door, before pulling Dewey down on the floor beside her with his shirt sleeve, "Now, what'd ya want to know?"

"Everything you can tell us about Duckworth" Louie answers, whispering conspiratorially.

Webby brightens at the name.

"Oh Duckworth's awesome. He was my best friend, um well... before he died. I couldn't leave the mansion, so it got really, really lonely sometimes, especially when Granny was busy, but Duckworth was always there" She presses her index fingers together, grinning brightly, "He'd let me follow him around while he cleaned, and we'd have tea parties, and we'd play cards… that's a gentleman's sport, apparently, and man was I good-"

Louie rolls his eyes, "Come on, Webby. Is that all you got? Cause I'm looking for something juicier here"

"Oh, are you thirsty? Because Duckworth can make us some juice. He always used to make the _best_ orange juice"

"No… I mean… You knew him, Webby. There had to have been something of note"

Something he could _use_.

Webby shrugs, "He was Duckworth. What more could you want?"

* * *

Duckworth always used to be rather free in his affections, especially in comparison to Scrooge, who's stingy in every sense of the word. He pulls his hand in his without much thought, and brushes shoulders with him whenever he can, and if Scrooge is just standing there, gazing off in thought, Duckworth will rest his chin atop the downy feathers on his head, and throw his arms across his shoulders, because it's just too good of an opportunity to pass up (and he's the perfect height, just a foot shorter than him, and he gets so perfectly flustered, and Duckworth finds such immense satisfaction in making _the_ Scrooge McDuck, red in the face).

He's considerably more discreet, though. He's _always_ discreet.

Now he has to make up for lost time.

Having a somewhat physical form, after so long spent as nothing more than the inkling of a wandering spirit, is a breath fo fresh air- not that Duckworth breathes anymore, because he hasn't done that in quite some time.

He blinks, experimentally wiggling each finger, before curling them into a fist.

"Goodness" He casts his eyes around the mansion, cast in semi-darkness... or perhaps his eyesight has changed: a lot has changed, from when he was last here, he can feel it in his bones, his nonexistent bones. "It's been such a long time"

He notices a box, one which didn't belong and hadn't been there earlier that afternoon, sitting in the middle of the staircase, right beside where he'd regained his form. His head tilts in curious apprehension. He reaches out and opens the door...

And there's his boss, his employer, his closest… associate, fumbling with a trap door, cursing beneath his breath.

"D-Duckworth" Scrooge's beak falls open, "I-I cannae believe it's really you"

"Hello, sir. I hope I've been missed?"

"Sorely" Scrooge replies, with a misty smile.

His hand goes through him, at first. He has to remind himself that he's not alive anymore, and that he isn't corporeal, so of course he can't touch him (that stings. That stings more than he likes for it to, than he likes to admit, especially with Scrooge looking up at him like that, like he is the sun and the moon, the hen come back to roost, his everything, his _savior_ ).

He needs to save him.

It's still dark, but only for a moment, and dammit, he needs to get McDuck out of there. So he grabs him up into his arms bridal style, managing the feat through pure willpower alone.

Scrooge shivers, at the feel of Duckworth's hands against his feathers, partially solid, but also incorporeal, his touch so familiar but impossibly different. Duckworth savors having his dear duck in his arms once more (he's spent years watching, grieving with him, (when Della disappears Duckworth feels something in him crack, and the rift is only exacerbated further by the sight of Scrooge, teary eyed and sulking, lashing out at everything, hurting so deeply Duckworth can taste it. He remains always at his side then, in the ensuing weeks, hovering right beside his chair, intangible limbs which were not limbs, now phantom energy, lingering indefinitely, wrapped around the man's shoulders in the hopes his nonpresence presence may bring comfort) sharing in his wins and his loses, but still being impossibly separate). Duckworth savors the feel of his weight, his warmth.

He's hot, hot, hot, against his cold, cold, cold.

He presses his cool nose against McDuck's cheek, who laughs, and it's as if he never left. "Now that I've _rescued_ you from those meddling rapscallions, where to next, sir?"

"I know just the place, Benny"

Duckworth nods curtly, fighting back a smile. "Lead the way"

* * *

Louie stares at the butler, from where the duckling stands leant up against the kitchen counter. He's just floating there, washing windows, all transparent and weird. He can see the sink through where his intestines should be, and the sunlight passes through his head like he's not even there, tinted blue and shining in Louie's eyes.

Yeah, that's going to be difficult getting used to.

"So uh… where ya been?" He asks, in his best attempt to be casual, off hand.

Lovable, careless Louie.

"Hmm? What's that, young Llewellyn?" He's really intent on his work. Because you know, windows, woo, exciting! Or something like that.

Louie cringes at that god forsaken name.

"First off, it's Louie, thanks" His head rolls onto the counter. Hand pressing the napkin into as many halves as was possible, "And uh, you were dead, and now you're a ghost and I'm just wondering where you were in the in between time, you know?

"I've been in the mansion. Trapped between realms, actually" He shrugs, cleaning still, "I believe I was bound here perhaps by some unfulfilled business, but I've never been quite certain"

"Unfulfilled business, huh?" Understanding dawns, a knowing look crosses his face, and he grins mischievously. He could think of a few things that fit that bill. Or persons. _Person_ , actually.

This was too good. This was too _rich_. He rubs his hands together, mind already exploding with ideas for schemes. "Hehe. I think I can help with that"

Duckworth's eyes widen, "I know that look, Llewellyn, and I suggest you divorce whatever crackpot ideas you're forming, immediately"

"Louie! It's Louie!"


	2. You Were Making X Eyes At Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge McDuck was going to stop death.

"Death does come for everyone, eventually" Duckworth says, almost casually, late one evening, and the way he says it, it's the most reasonable thing in the world.

Scrooge gazes at him oddly, from the side of his eye.

"Not everyone. It's not coming for me anytime soon, or I'm not Scrooge McDuck" He replies, and there's an implied 'you too'.

Duckworth laughs faintly, a deep rumbling sound, and he gazes at the duck beside him almost fondly.

"Yes, but there are things even you can't do"

"Hogwash!"

"...I'm tired, sir"

And Scrooge can see it, in the hagrid set of the lines etched across his face, in the dull gleam of his eyes. He looks heavy, sagging as if it's becoming a struggle to support his own weight. As if the whole world weighs on him, seated firmly on his shoulders, which slump inward and downward, until he began to crumble.

He looks old- fragile, for the first time in his whole 75 years.

Tears prick Scrooge's eyes, as the meaning of the words dawn on him.

"Nonsense. I'm not giving up on you. Whatever it takes"

 _You're not dying on my watch_ , Scrooge thinks vehemently.

* * *

"You didn't _let_ him die"

"I could have done more! I should have done something more. I should have stopped this-"

"You're not the arbiter of the universe, McDuck!" His housekeeper sucks in a steadying breath, pinching the bridge of her beak. Her eyes squeeze shut in annoyance, and worry, shutting against the massive headache forming behind her skull, "You can't just _stop_ death"

Ms. Beakley turns away, staring at the mantle. Expression stormy. Pained.

Scrooge watches her, the way her shoulders squeeze inward, with fists clenched at his sides, and eyes slit.

"It was his time"

"This is idiocy! Are you going to help me or not?"

She turns upon him, and he's briefly pulled up short. He can see the anguish, the tears welling in her eyes. She's hurting, just as much as he is, but the hurt is also smothered with frustration.

"Help you do what, exactly? There's… I'm sorry but there's nothing _we_ can do. You need to accept that-"

He sweeps out of the room.

"You're being ridiculous, McDuck!" She barks after him.

* * *

He slams his hands against his desk, a sudden flair of determination burning red hot like fire in his chest.

Screw this! Was he really going to let something as small as, as _inconsequential_ as, death, come between him and what was his? No, no, of course not, because he was Scrooge McDuck!

There was no boundary too thick, no veil too concealing, no mountain too high or valley too low, that could possibly stop him.

Because he was Scrooge McDuck; he could do _anything_. (And if he could do anything at all, it _had_ to be this).

Not possible. He scoffs at that. Anything was possible. He'd make it possible, if it came to that.

 _I mean come on_ , he thinks. He's evaded death for one hundred and fifty three years. He's found untold treasures certain to be lost to time, fashioned everything out of nothing and pulled himself out from the dark abyss of desolation using nothing but a rusty spoon.

He's used to improbable, and small odds and fat chances and impossibilities.

So, Scrooge McDuck sets out to _do_ the impossible. Scrooge McDuck was going to stop death.

He throws everything off his desk with a broad sweep of his arm, scrambles to the set of shelves towering above him, and snatches the map curled in the corner.

He spreads it out across the now empty surface, movements crisp and curt, eyes burning and breath ragged, as he searches for that one temple amongst the treasure holds and dungeons and scrawled landmarks scribbled in red ink, fueled by a clawing grief.

"There!" He shouts, finger slamming down on the page, "That's where I go first"

Scrooge McDuck was going to stop death.

* * *

"She's alive" Duckworth exclaims, voice thick with relief, hands trembling, pinprick tears in the corner of his eyes.

Scrooge blinks. Blinks again.

He has an inkling of who he means, but can't bring himself to believe it's true (won't believe, in case the flitting tickle of hope in his chest is wrong).

He reaches out to grab the apparition's hands, to steady him, to calm him so he can get an explanation, and Duckworth doesn't seem adverse to the touch, since he puts out the effort to make the digits solid enough to grasp.

Scrooge's expression is bittersweet, confused, concerned, as he intertwines their fingers, squeezing faintly, pulling the ghost slowly back down to earth, until his feet are touching the floor. His brow furrows, and Scrooge bites his tongue, so the words he so desperately wants to say don't come rushing out.

_What about Della?_

"What are you about talking?" He asks instead, indignance replacing grief, voice significantly hoarser that he'd like.

"She's alive. She's- Della is alive, sir!"

It only takes a moment, to realize the tears now streaming down Duckworth's face are tears of joy. Tears of unspeakable relief.

Della is alive. Their Della is alive. She's out there, somewhere, just waiting to be found.

"My goodness! But how could… are you certain?" A tiny laugh, an expulsion of pure elation, bubbles up from his throat, "How do you know for sure?"

"When I went to the Underworld, she wasn't there. I looked everywhere, Scrooge, and I couldn't find her" He laughs louder than Scrooge was expecting, "I'm not sure where she is, but wherever that may be, it's amongst the living" He beams, bright eyed and glowing, and for the first time in a long time, Duckworth looks _alive_ , like he had 20 years ago, before the sickness.

"She's _alive_ "

That is difficult to digest.

It takes Scrooge a moment to really absorb it, to allow it to sink into the cracks of the walls he'd been building around himself for nearly a decade (the walls he'd erected when the Spear crashed and the lightning hit and the coms went blank, when the signal got cut, and the time got fuzzy and the coffers went dry and Donald left, and the darkness set in).

For a long time, he'd clung onto that single thread of misguided hope, that she was alive, until he was able to cling no longer, until he had to admit she must be gone, must have been killed in the crash- or was at least too far, for even him to be able to reach her.

So to hear she was out there was… a shock.

"I just- I just never thought it'd be possible" He admits, choked up, "I never thought I'd see her again"

Duckworth reaches up with a translucent hand, clad in the same pair of gloves he'd died in, and tenderly wipes a tear from his eye. Scrooge hadn't realized he'd been crying, before that very moment. He doesn't try to stop, though, because he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything except the girl they're so close to reclaiming (their girl, their Della, just waiting to be found) and the man standing in front of him.

"It is. And we will" Duckworth says, with that quiet conviction that was always so characteristic of him (never too loud, never overstated, but _determined_ all the same). The sort that sated him when he was being unreasonable, that pulled him onward when he was intent on giving up.

 _They will_ , because she was out there, out there to be found, waiting to be brought home.

Scrooge McDuck grins, wide, like a fool. He throws his arms around Duckworth, and curls his beak into his chest, and just laughs. Tears are streaming down his face, and he's beginning to sound hysterical, but he doesn't care.

There's that familiar tingle in his chest, a flicker turned into a rousing flame.

It's hope. _Hope_. Hope, that he can fix the unfixable.

* * *

The mansion was meant to house an entire extended family, but instead it's only occupied by four people.

It's drab. It's depressing, honestly.

Duckworth fills his days with cleaning. He cleans rooms that will probably never be filled again, if the current circumstances are any indication. He cleans the dining rooms, all three of them, which haven't been used in months. He cleans the empty halls and the silent parlors and the dead kitchens.

He cleans everything that can be seen, reached, or fathomed, because Duckworth is nothing if not thorough.

When he's done cleaning, he'll spend the evening with Webbigail, playing princesses and pirates, and hosting little tea parties with plastic pink tea kettles and real tea (it's the highlight of his day, actually).

And in the late, late evening, when Webbigail has long since gone to bed, he'll sit out on the balcony with Beakley. The atmosphere is always mournful, quiet, as they sit with legs dangling in the cool air, often armed with wine glasses and tired, sickly smiles. But it is nice, because at least they are together.

At least he isn't alone.

It's nice, even when they don't talk, even when they don't make acidic jabs or share quiet secrets. Sometimes, they just sit, just to have someone nearby.

Then, once the sun is long gone and the stars have long been out, they wish each other good night, and go their separate ways. Duckworth crawls in his bed, and tries to ignore the ache in his bones. Sleeps. Awakens.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It is predictable. It is routine. It is drab, perhaps because it's so predictable, so routine.

But it's something.

* * *

Duckworth sweeps into McDuck's quarters, gait crisp and businesslike. He does not pause for idle chatter, nor stop, focused on one, singular goal.

He throws the curtains open, and sunlight immediately floods the room, highlighting the little motes of dust suddenly sent all aflutter. It would be quite the surreal sight, a golden ethereal haze sliced through the darkness, if not for the reminder of how long it'd been since Duckworth had been able to clean this room properly.

Scrooge refused to let him in (anyone in, actually).

His fingers itch at the sight of the dust coating the velvet curtains, but he ignores it, instead taking that moment to tie the curtains back.

There's a loud, frustrated grumble behind him just as he finishes tying the second bow. He turns, fully expecting to be met with the same resistance he's met with every morning.

And there's Scrooge McDuck, eyes squinted, glaring him down, as if he should combust on the spot. Duckworth hardly blinks, hands clasped behind his back.

"Close those things back up, Duckworth" He grumbles, turning over to face away from the light now streaming in.

"Good morning to you too, sir"

"Didnae I tell ye I don't want to be disturbed?"

Duckworth nods, stepping over to the bed. It's a mess as well, sheets and comforter and pillows all piled up into a ball. He hasn't left it in days. Duckworth knows this, knows he's been mourning in the darkness for weeks.

Enough. That ends now.

It's not just Duckworth's job to clean house. It's his job to know Scrooge, and he knows for a fact that if he does nothing to pull him out of this pit he's fallen into, he will fall deeper, dig his heels in like the stubborn geiser he is, indefinitely.

(He loves, and hates that, about him. He's a right, pig headed git).

So, like the practical man he is, Duckworth drags _the_ Scrooge McDuck out of bed, whether he likes it or not.

"You say a lot of things, sir. That does not mean they should be heeded"

"Have I said I hate you?" He asks gruffly, as Duckworth forces him down the hall.

Duckworth smirks, faintly, shakes his head at how utterly insufferable McDuck could be, when he so chose.

(He's hurting. Duckworth can see it, can see it through the glamours and the masks).

He presses a kiss to his temple, and Scrooge grumbles, curls his beak, and looks away, "No, not as of yet"

"Well, I do"

* * *

Hot tears stand in the man's eyes. His chest is heaving, and his hands are clenched into shaking fists (clenching, clenching, clenching, until his fingers are _digging_ into the delicate skin, digging and pricking).

Duckworth sighs, staring at Scrooge from across his desk, nonexistent, invisible, hardly there elbows leant up against the top surface, cheek pressed into a gloved hand.

"What am I going to do with you?" He asks softly.

Scrooge glares right through him. Right past him.

Duckworth had not been expecting an answer.

* * *

Ms. Beakley blinks owlishly in the dim lamplight of the foyer. Little Webbigail, dressed in a pair of pink overalls, and with an arsenal of crayons at her disposal, lay comfortably at her granny's feet.

"Where are you going?" Beakley asks Scrooge sharply, eyebrow raised.

Scrooge scowls at her.

"You _know_ where I'm going"


End file.
